R: Well looky here, hold my beer, I see a shot cross my bow,A key stroke from the pink bloke, tryina raise an eyebrow.This smitten kitten from Britain, sad, mad, snakebitten,Just sitten and spitten, like he can’t find his mitten.

Listen.I suggest that you best go back to sipping high tea.You nyet wanna get in a rap battle with me.

Coming out here all salty, with a fucking four-liner,Like yer some kinda poet; not a habitual whiner.A sublime little rhyme, about a cock-sucking criminal.Okay, so you’re just as crude as you are unoriginal.

You aint, like a Saint, bro, you more like the damned,But let’s be clear, why we here, and your Chunnel is jammed,It’s not cause we fought, or your lack of gentility,It’s not the pungent odor of your contemptibility.

It’s not for your stabs, or the insults you threw,Although, we both know, that all happened too.No, you’re taking this loss, like a turkey takes stuffing,Cause you tried to call my bluff when I wasn’t bluffing.